Thursday, 30 October 2003

Once Upon A Time

He was the hero In the tales I used to tell myself
Every night before I slept
And he’s documented only in this diary
Into which have been bound
The countless sheets
Of the many fictitious accounts
Of his loving me.

I wrote of midnight escapades, romantic encounters
Following unexpected phone calls,
And the way he would greet me –
“He carefully brushed aside my hair with his fingers,
with his twinkling eyes looking down into mine.
He’d hold my face in his hands, and gently kiss me
as if savouring every moment,
and then he’d pull me into his arms,
close to his heart, and just hold me.”
All without actually saying a word.
 And “we would be off, for the night lay before us!
fancy restaurants, long walks down deserted streets
but to stumble upon hidden, moonlit gardens
as if they existed for the two of us”
For me to feel so much
For me to wake the next morning beside him
Every time
To see the reality uncloaked by the sunlight.

These were the stories I told myself
So often that I’d come to believe them all!
Tales of this “master of ambiguity”
Who would disappear for “painfully long spans of time”
But to make his great reappearances
Into my world
At those pivotal moments
When I had just begun to realize
That it had all been a dream -
My meager fantasy of a fairy-tale-like love -
That he returns to awake me to an impossibility
To give me hope again after having let time diminish it,
But always, nevertheless, would he come back.

 It’s the mere idea of him!
The heart-breaking tales of a man
On whom I wanted to rely
But who faded away every time he began to feel my touch.
The written accounts of the captivating words spoken to me by this man
Only sustain this melancholy!
As I, still, nightly, read my tales of this man
Of whom there is no proof,
Nor of “us” – the regretful consequence -
 That exist outside of these scribblings
That were jotted excitedly on loose sheets
And that are now bound into my diary.
They reflect what may be memories
Of moments that I’m not so sure were ever real
But that hurt me, nonetheless.
And they call for me now to write the abrupt
The End.

Monday, 31 March 2003


I’ve put myself into this straight jacket.
At least I can breathe. At most, I’m alive.
And somewhere in between is my uncomfortable reality:
Being bound-up, and unsure of how to get out of this position. 

In a romantic fantasy, someone saves me by undoing the restraints. 
On the days that I’m most hopeful, I am able to envision setting myself free. 
Other days I feel creative and I think really, really carefully, 
Trying to imagine sitting in just slightly different enough of a position 
That I can enjoy the constraints, or at least forget that they are there. 

But what I actually do is divert my thoughts, and practice a very disciplined form of avoidance. 

If I’m lucky, the clasps will break on their own from time and aging.
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